


Forming Empires in the Shade of the Trees

by inoubliable



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ben Hanscom is the King pass it on, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Henry Bowers Being an Asshole, Oracles, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: When normal, average, human Ben Hanscom crawls underneath a fallen log, all he expects to find is a good hiding spot. He does not at all expect a tunnel that leads him to a world straight from a fairytale. He expects even less to be the subject of a prophecy that implies he is meant to be King of this strange place where the trees glow and the flowers move by themselves. But, hey. Who is he to deny destiny?





	Forming Empires in the Shade of the Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [honkhonkrichard](http://honkhonkrichard.tumblr.com) on tumblr for the [IT 2 fic exchange](http://it2ficexchange.tumblr.com). As always, I'm late posting this, but I sincerely hope you enjoy this regardless.
> 
> Title from [Running with the Boys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGE7n-aexSw) by Lights.

Ben doesn’t know how long he’s been running, but he does know his heart is going to explode if he doesn’t stop soon.

It’s hard to run in the woods. His sneakers keep slipping on the loose blanket of leaves, and tree roots keep cropping up at random, ready and willing to take him down should he take one wrong step. He’s avoided them so far, but he’s getting tired. He’s getting clumsy. He already stumbled once — the mud stain is never going to come out of his jeans.

But that’s the last of his worries right now.

This is his own fault. He should have known better than to talk back to Bowers. Bowers is the law around these parts — not because anyone ever told him he is, but because everyone is too afraid to tell him he isn’t. No one likes him, but no one has to. Fear has always reigned supreme in Derry.

Ben knows this better than anyone but that didn’t stop him from opening his big mouth, and now here he is, being chased down by the Bowers gang. He doesn’t know exactly what will happen if they catch him, but he knows he doesn’t want to find out. He runs faster.

There’s a break in the trees up ahead. Ben veers left, avoiding it. Maybe he can fool them into thinking he’d be stupid enough to give them a clear shot. Bowers is fast, but he’s not very smart. Ben can trick him. But he has to do it fast, because there’s a stitch screaming in his side. He’s not going to make it much farther.

He jumps over a fallen log and lands wrong, stumbling badly, losing his balance. He tumbles into the damp undergrowth, loudly and without grace, and that’s when his body decides to give up. He tries to push himself up, but his arms shake and a lancing pain slices through his stomach, sending him sprawling back to the ground with a groan.

Over the sound of his own wild breathing, he can just hear the Bowers gang crashing through the trees. They’re not close, but they’re not far. Ben has a few minutes, at most. He’s not going to recover that fast.

He looks around, hoping for a sturdy stick, something to help lever him to his feet. Instead, he finds that the fallen log he tripped over is resting on uneven ground and there’s a small dark hiding spot beneath it, untouched by the sun, unnoticeable except from this angle. With all the sudden strength of a man finding one last hope, he forces himself onto his hands and knees and crawls.

The opening is just big enough for him to fit through. It shouldn’t be very deep, considering the log was only about as big around as his own body, but somehow his tentative shuffling doesn’t send him face-first into a wall of dirt or bark. He feels around carefully with his hands, inching forward. It’s pitch black. He thinks, distantly, that there should be some light filtering through, but no. He can’t see a thing.

He keeps crawling, painfully slowly, feeling his way. He tries to listen for Bowers, but outside of his own ragged breathing, there is no sound. Ben has spent enough time in the woods to know that there is never a true moment of absolute silence. There should be the whistle of wind, the whisper of leaves, the sub-verbal creak of the world shifting and settling. But there isn’t. Ben can’t hear a thing. It makes the hair on his arms stand on end.

A minute. Five. Maybe ten more, and then perhaps an hour. There’s no way for Ben to keep track of time. He tries to count his heartbeats, but his pulse is still racing — not only from exertion now. He’s scared, almost. Not the piercing, do-or-die animal fear of having the Bowers gang hot on his heels, but something deeper. Something primal. Human beings do not belong in places like this. He wonders if maybe this is a dream, or maybe a hallucination. Perhaps he smacked his head in that fall and he’s still lying unconscious on the forest floor. That’s a horrifying thought. He pinches himself. It hurts. The floor under his hands feels firm and real. His shoulders ache from hunching down. His knees are starting to get sore. If this is all a dream, it feels more real than most anything he’s ever experience before.

He pushes on for a long time, and then stops to rest his sore muscles. Every inch of his body is throbbing by now. He sits back slowly on his haunches, trying to stretch in the cramped space — only to realize it’s not as cramped as he thought. He can sit up fully without his head bumping against anything. Tentatively, he raises his hand. His fingers slide through empty air. He reaches carefully in every direction and touches nothing. Then, in small, cautious movements, he climbs to his feet. He stands at his full height. Nothing touches him.

He realizes, suddenly, that his eyes should have adjusted by now. He squints, but there’s nothing to see. Just darkness, all around him. Except… there’s a tiny spot of white, low to the ground, directly in front of him. He reaches out to touch it, but it disappears when his hand passes over where it should be. He takes a few steps forward, tries again, but the result is the same.

And then he understands, all at once, that it’s not tangible because it’s a way out.

He somehow manages to coax his aching body into movement. First a brisk walk, then a job, and at last a trot. The spot of light begins to grow — slowly at first, and then faster and faster as he hastens towards it. When he gets close enough for a patch of shockingly green grass to materialize, he sprints.

The excruciating darkness is ripped away as soon as he steps foot onto that springy grass. The sudden light should hurt his eyes, but it doesn’t. The sunshine filters softly through the trees, lending the meadow an ethereal glow. There’s a gentle breeze, and when it sifts through the leaves it makes a sound like bells. Or maybe that’s his imagination. His ears are still ringing loud with the sound of his heartbeat.

Distantly, he thinks something isn’t right. It’s October in Derry. Not bitingly cold, not yet, but certainly cool. The leaves had just begun to fall. He had been slipping on them.

There’s nothing to slip on here. The floor of the forest is clean and bare in a way that Ben has never seen before, as if someone has taken the time to sweep up the foliage, leaving behind only a blanket of grass and tufts of wildflowers. The trees are healthy and full, greener than ever, so lush with leaves that the sunlight is dimmed into something quiet and gentle, illuminating everything Ben can see with that soft glow. His chest aches at the sight. He realizes he’s holding his breath.

Something moves out of the corner of his eye. He thinks for one heart-stopping moment that it’s Bowers, that he’s somehow been found, but when he whips around, there’s only a small white sheep, grazing slowly. It peers at him with one curious eye, but doesn’t turn its head. It doesn’t seem afraid of him in the least. He stares at it, and it stares back, chewing a mouthful of grass. Then, when he doesn’t move, it loses interest, returning to its meal. It takes several shuffling steps, head lowered to the ground, and turns fully in Ben’s direction to find another bite.

It has three eyes.

Ben gives a wordless shout, stumbling back. The sheep stops chewing, blinking balefully at him with all three eyes.

Somewhere, farther in the forest but still close by, there’s an answering yell. “Ayuh!”

Ben doesn’t recognize the voice, but he does know that the last people he heard in these woods were hunting for him. Panic-stricken, he dives behind a tree. it’s just barely thick enough around to hide him. He crouches low to the ground and peers slowly around the trunk.

There’s a few seconds of tense silence, and then a man strolls into view. His skin is dark and his hair is shorn short. He’s tall. Taller than any man Ben has ever seen before. He towers over the stray sheep, his hands on his hips. “There you are,” he says, sounding both stern and fond. His voice is softer than Ben expects, more melodic, as pleasant as the wind gently tinkling through the leaves. “You know better than to run off.”

The sheep watches the man bemusedly, it’s mouth still very full of grass. If the man is concerned by the extra eye, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he reaches down and scratches the sheep behind the ears. The third eye closes when the man’s hand comes close, but the other two remain open and trusting.

“We need to head back soon,” the man tells the sheep. “Before it gets dark. I know how scared you get, and I’m not gonna carry you just because you decided to go exploring.”

Judging by the man’s fond tone, Ben doesn’t think this is true. He thinks perhaps the man really would carry his sheep home. This, somehow, makes it hard for Ben to be so afraid of him. He leans further around the tree, trying to get a better look.

A twig snaps. The fear comes rushing back with a vengeance when both the man and the sheep turn to look at him, their heads moving in eerie synchrony.

Ben doesn’t know what he expects, but it certainly isn’t for the man to jump back as if struck. He says something sharp and incomprehensible, and then his hand flies up to cover his mouth. At the same time, Ben flinches back, trying to somehow disappear into the shadowy woods, despite knowing he’s lit up with the same unearthly glow as everything else.

The man stares at Ben for a long moment. Ben stares back. Then, slowly, he lowers his hand. “You could have told me we have company,” the man says, presumably to the sheep and then, louder, “You don’t have to be afraid! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Ben wants to distrust this man, but he has no real reason to. His presence is kind, and his voice is gentle. And, most importantly, he’s not part of Bowers’ gang. Ben knows this for a fact. There’s a particular sort of person Bowers tends to employ, and kind-spirited black men don’t exactly fit the bill.

Slowly, Ben comes out from behind the tree. He stays low to the ground, feet spread apart, weight distributed, ready to make a run for it if need be. His exhausted, aching body won’t make it far, but this stranger doesn’t have to know that.

“There you are,” the man says. His smile is encouraging. “Are you lost, friend?”

Ben doesn’t even begin to know how to answer that. “Sort of,” he admits.

The man’s smile deepens. “I figured that was the case.” He clicks his tongue and the sheep immediately stops grazing, bounding over to him with such enthusiasm it knocks against his leg. Still looking at Ben, the man rubs it behind the ears again. It seems like an absent-minded habit. “You want some help?”

Ben realizes, all at once, what he must look like. The knees of his jeans are ruined, his hair is sweaty and sticking to his forehead, and he’s streaked with dirt and vegetation from head to toe. “I could use some help,” he admits.

The man nods. “I can get you home,” he says. “Just tell me where you’re from.”

It’s such a strange thing to say, considering Ben has been operating under the assumption that he’s still in the woods surrounding Derry. This is perhaps a foolish assumption, considering everything he’s seen, but the alternative is… well, there is no alternative. It’s just not possible.

But when Ben opens his mouth to say _Derry_ , the word sticks to his throat. He doesn’t want to go back. Not yet. Bowers and his gang are surely still waiting for him in that half-dead fall forest, and even if they aren’t, they know where he lives. He shivers, chilled despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. No matter how strange this place is, it’s so much better than whatever is waiting for him back home.

“If it’s okay with you,” he says slowly, “I think I’d like to stay here.”

The man blinks at him. He looks down at the sheep. The sheep looks back at him with all three eyes. “Think we can afford one more mouth to feed?” he murmurs. The sheep doesn’t answer in any way that Ben can detect, but all the same, the man nods to himself. “Alright. Come with me. We’ll get you something clean to wear.”

Ben doesn’t know how this man can possibly have anything that might fit him. He’s even taller than Ben first realizes, standing at least a foot and a half over Ben. Ben is not a short man, and so this makes him uneasy, but he quickly realizes it’s no weirder than a three-eyed sheep so he gets over himself and allows the man to lead him across the meadow and through the opposite wall of trees.

They don’t talk at first, which Ben is okay with. He’s still trying to absorb everything. This place keeps surprising him. He assumes that, as they walk deeper and deeper into the forest, the light will start to dim. It doesn’t. Everything is still outlined with that same soft light, as if lit from within and not illuminated by the sun the way he had initially suspected. There are no birds as far as Ben can see, but there is birdsong, quiet trills of music that sound like they’re coming from every direction at once. The forest floor remains free of debris, but there is no shortage of flowers, cropping up in small clusters across almost every available inch. Ben is scared he’s going to crush them underfoot, but when he watches his feet, he’s almost sure the flowers are moving out of his way, twisting their stems to accommodate his footfalls. This makes him feel dizzy and overwhelmed, though, so he sticks to watching the man’s back as he picks his way confidently through the foliage.

“Hey,” Ben calls suddenly, a thought occurring to him. “What’s your name?”

The man glances back at him. He seems to consider the question for a moment and then says, simply, “Mike.”

“Mike,” Ben repeats, committing this to memory. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ben.”

Mike smiles at him. Up close, his teeth are very even and very white. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the sheets _baas_ softly and butts against Mike’s leg, and he laughs instead. “This is Mary,” he says with utmost fondness. He lowers his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “She likes to be the center of attention.”

Ben smiles, only the slightest bit uneasy about the fact that Mary can evidently understand them. “I like her name,” he offers. “It’s clever.”

“Clever?”

“Yeah, you know.” Ben gestures at the sheep. “Mary had a little lamb?”

Mike and Mary share a glance.

“Like the song?” Ben adds, feeling spectacularly foolish and impossibly lost.

“Right,” Mike says agreeably. It’s clear he has no idea what Ben is talking about. “You’ll have to teach it to me.”

Ben just nods. He doesn’t know how to explain that he thought everyone in the English-speaking world knew that song.

They walk for a long time. Ben had started to forget how sore his body was, but his exhaustion catches up with him fast and he finds himself lagging behind. He tries to keep up, but Mike’s legs are impossibly long and Ben is so very tired. He wants to ask for a break, but he doesn’t want to be a burden. He pushes on, stumbling after Mike as quickly as he can.

Mike doesn’t notice until Mary stops in her tracks and gives a series of bleats, sounding somehow authoritative. When Mike turns around, he looks surprised, and then abashed. “You must be tired,” he says. “I should have known.”

“I’m fine,” Ben tries to insist, but the way he’s sagging against a tree trunk probably isn’t very convincing.

Mike looks up, peering through the trees. “We have to keep going,” he says, sounding apologetic. And then, just as Ben is trying to convince himself he can take even one more step, Mike turns and crouches down. “Hop on.”

Ben blinks several times, uncomprehending. “…what?”

Mike glances back at him. “I’m going to carry you,” he says, very plainly, as if this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say to a grown man.

Ben stares for another moment, and then he starts to laugh. “No way. I — You can’t — I’m too heavy.”

“Nonsense,” Mike says without hesitation. “If I can carry my flock, I can carry you.”

“I think I’m a little heavier than a sheep,” Ben argues, feeling himself start to flush. He’s beginning to get embarrassed. His weight has always been a sore subject, and he doesn’t want to climb on this man’s back only for him to admit Ben was right all along. Being picked up would be kind of nice, but being put down again would be devastating.

Mike stares at him with dark eyes. “Just trust me,” he says.

Ben has scant few reasons why he should blindly trust this man. But, impossibly, he does. Releasing a deep breath, he walks forward and awkwardly positions his knees against Mike’s sides, his arms loosely circling Mike’s neck. Mike loops his arms firmly around Ben’s legs and then… stands. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He takes a single moment to adjust, jostling Ben into a better position, and then he begins to walk. There is not a single hitch in his stride.

Being carried as an adult is a disarming experience, but Ben finds that he could start to like it. He has the opportunity to experience the strange forest without the background ache of his screaming body. He watches the way the trees dance with the soft breeze. He looks at the ground, painted a thousand colors by the endless variety of wildflowers, most of which he doesn’t even begin to recognize. He stares up through the ceiling of leaves, trying to determine the time. It must be getting late. Mike mentioned that it would get dark soon. But the sky is endless and blue, and although Ben can’t see the sun, it doesn’t appear to be dimming.

Mike is moving much more quickly than before. Ben realizes that Mike must have been waiting for him, slowing his steps so Ben could keep up. It’s both a nice and necessary gesture, because there is no way Ben could move this fast without running. Ben looks around, expecting the forest to start blurring around them at any second, but everything remains stable. He wonders if maybe the trees are moving with them. But that thought makes his head hurt, so eventually he hunches down over Mike’s shoulders and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t fall asleep, but he must doze, because when he looks up again, the forest is almost dark. Even the strange glow from before has dimmed down to a dull shine, less yellow and more white, as if the trees have forgotten the sun and remembered the moon. It’s beautiful, but also eerie. Ben half-expects to hear the howl of a wolf or the snap of an unseen branch. But, no. The forest is gentle and quiet and calm.

And then, suddenly, Mike walks through a break in the trees and there is an entire field laid out before them. In the light, it would probably be as lush and green as everything else, but this late it looks more like the surface of a lake, shimmering and moonlit. Ben’s breath catches in his chest.

Mike must hear it, because he grins, fierce and proud. “Welcome home,” he says, and then starts loping across the field to a small house, dimly lit with candles in all the windows. Mary, who had more or less kept Mike’s pace until now, starts up a dead sprint, a white cloud slicing a streak through the dark field. Mike shakes his head fondly. “You’d think she hates this place, as much as she runs off. But she always makes her way back home.”

Ben privately thinks he understands why.

The house, close-up, is sturdier than it seemed. It doesn’t look wooden, but it must be, because it glows with the same fervency as the trees. What Ben assumed where candles in the windows are not candles at all, but instead tiny lights captured in thin glass vials. They look almost like fireflies, but the light doesn’t dim or fade. _Fairy lights_ , Ben thinks, unbidden.

Mike puts Ben down on his feet outside on the porch and then leads him through the front door. There is no light source other than the window lights, but they are enough to illuminate the huge front room, which is decorated with wildflower garland and strands of ivy and furnished with several wooden chairs, intricately carved from stumps, sprouting several small green shoots as if somehow still alive. Mike takes off his soft cloth shoes and shrugs out of his long purple shawl. Ben, who was just beginning to feel grounded again, feels terribly out of place. But he knows how to remove his shoes, at least, so he crouches to undo the laces.

“I have a surprise for you!” Mike says suddenly. Ben looks up, assuming that Mike is talking to him, but then, above their heads, he hears the sudden unmistakeable patter of feet. His fingers and heart both freeze.

“It better not be another human!” an unfamiliar voice calls.

Of all the weird things Ben has seen and heard today, this somehow strikes him as the strangest.

Mike says nothing. He glances at Ben, not bothering to hide his grin, and then busies himself with the fireplace. In the few seconds it takes his sure fingers to build a fire, a man descends from the staircase. He stops short at the bottom of it.

“Oh,” he whispers. He looks at Ben, then at Mike, then back again. His eyes are round and blue. His hair is fiery, falling across his forehead in shaggy chunks. He’s much shorter than Mike, perhaps even shorter than Ben. His ears are very, very pointed. “It _is_ a human,” he says, sounding breathless.

Mike stands. The ceiling is high, but he could reach up and touch it without much effort. With the fire illuminating him, throwing his shadow all the way across the room, he looks larger than life.

“Surprise, Bill,” he says, and smiles that perfect, white smile.

* * *

For all that Bill didn’t seem to want Mike bringing home a human, he seems thrilled by the sight of Ben. He spends several long minutes circling him, reaching out as if to touch but never quite making contact, offering soft appreciative noises every time he discovers something new. He seems especially fascinated by Ben’s undone shoelaces, crouching down to examine them closely. Ben tolerates this both because he doesn’t want to offend Bill and because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Mike watches for a moment, seemingly amused, but he quickly moves on. He takes long strides around the room, dimming some of the window lights, taking small vials off shelves seemingly at random, filling the entire place with his presence. Ben can’t help but watch him, which distracts him enough that he almost doesn’t notice when Bill finally touches his shoulder.

Bill pulls his hand back, though, almost immediately. He’s making a face. “That fabric is horrible.”

Ben offers him an apologetic smile. “Yeah. It’s from Walmart.”

Bill nods, looking thoughtful, as if that is fascinating and not completely mundane. “Walmart,” he repeats quietly to himself, sounding out the word. And then, louder, he asks. “How did you get here?”

“Mike brought me,” Ben says.

Bill grins. “I didn’t mean how you got to the house.”

Ben flushes, understanding suddenly. “Oh! I —” He tries to come up with a logical answer, but everything he wants to say sounds ridiculous. Then again, Bill lives with a giant and a flock of three-eyed sheep. Maybe he’ll understand. “I climbed under a fallen log.”

Bill looks fascinated. “Just for fun?”

“Not exactly,” Ben says slowly. “I was being chased.”

Mike approaches them then, holding a single cup, which he offers to Ben. “Drink this,” he instructs, and then, “Who was chasing you?”

Ben knows better than to accept drinks from strangers, but he’s thirsty. Besides, if Mike wanted to harm him, he could have done it well before now. Ben accepts the cup, considering the question. “Bad guys,” he says finally. It’s barely an answer, and certainly not a good one, but Bill and Mike share an understanding glance as if that’s all the explanation they need. Ben takes a careful sip of the mysterious amber liquid. It smells floral, like tea, but burns like whiskey, warming him all the way down to his stomach. “This is good,” he says.

Mike smiles, amused by his surprise. “Thank you. Made it myself.”

Ben wants to ask what it is, how it’s made, but he’s tired and sore and too overwhelmed to process much more information.

“Are you hungry?” Bill asks.

Ben is, but he shakes his head. “I don’t think I can stay awake long enough,” he admits.

“You do look exhausted,” Bill agrees. “We should let you sleep.” He sounds only slightly disappointed by this.

Mike claps Bill on the shoulder. “We’ll talk more in the morning,” he says. He bids Ben goodnight and then levers himself into one of the grand wooden chairs, filling it with all the grace and posture of a king on a throne.

Bill gestures for Ben to follow him up the stairs. The room he leads Ben to is small and sparsely furnished, but it must be somewhere above the fireplace because it’s pleasantly warm and smells like fragrant smoke, the good kind that reminds Ben of bonfires and summertime. The bed is tiny, taking up one corner, and there is a small black chest at the end of it. Bill opens it and pulls out several woolen blankets and a silky-looking robe. “This should fit you,” he says. “If you put your clothes outside the door, I’ll wash them in the morning.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” Ben says automatically, mostly because he doesn’t want to be a burden but also because it seems like a bad idea to part with his clothes, just in case he needs to make a quick escape. He doesn’t exactly cherish the idea of running through the woods in just a flimsy robe.

But Bill just smiles, like maybe he understands. “It’s your choice.”

And then he leaves, wishing Ben a goodnight as he closes the door. Ben stands alone for a long time, listening to the quiet crackle of the downstairs fire, the soft murmur of Bill’s voice, the answering rumble of Mike’s. He wishes he had thought to ask for a shower, but then again, he doesn’t really have the energy for it. He slips out of his shoes, and after a moment of hesitation, steps out of his jeans. He considers sleeping in his shirt, but it’s filthy and smells strongly of sweat, so he eventually strips out of it, too. He drops his clothes in a pile on the floor, and then sighs, bending to pick them up. It’s just stupid to trust Bill and Mike enough to sleep under their roof but not enough to wash his clothes. He drops the pile outside the door and then climbs into the bed, pulling one of the blankets over himself.

He’s sure that he won’t fall asleep fast, considering everything he has to think about, but then he closes his eyes and is asleep before he finishes the thought.

* * *

Ben does not have the chance to think it was all a dream, because he wakes up the next morning in the same small bed, and it feels nothing like home. He doesn’t know what time it is, but the sun is up and he can hear Bill and Mike bustling around downstairs, talking in quiet tones. He thinks about rolling over and going back to sleep, but eventually he drags himself out of bed. His clothes, clean and folded, are waiting for him on the small black chest. He gets dressed in stiff, mechanical movements, too tired to be embarrassed about Bill coming in while he was sleeping.

Mike smiles at him when he comes down the stairs. “There you are! I was worried you crawled under another log.”

Ben returns his smile. Mike has such an easy-going humor that it would be hard not to. He joins them at the table and accepts the plate of food Bill offers him. None of it is familiar, but after a few cautious nibbles, Ben realizes everything is delicious and digs in. Mike and Bill watch him for a moment, and then return to their conversation as if serving a human breakfast is perfectly average for them.

“We have a lot to do today,” Mike is saying. “I have to fix the fence. Mary got out again, and you know if she has the chance, she’ll—”

Bill interrupts him with a scoff. “Are you crazy? We have to go to the city.”

Mike frowns, sounding puzzled. “We already did a supply run. We aren’t due back until the foxwood comes in, and that won’t be until —”

“Not a supply run,” Bill says impatiently. “We have to take Ben to Stan.”

Ben looks up at the sound of his name. Mike is gaping at Bill. “We are not taking Ben to Stan,” he says. “The last time we took someone to Stan, it was an absolute disaster.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was _Richie_ ,” Mike argues, as if that explains everything.

“Richie was not that bad!” Bill says, then seems to concede, changing tack. “Would you have preferred to keep him here?”

“ _No_ ,” Mike says emphatically. “He would have scared off my whole flock. It took us _weeks_ to find Evelyn after he left.”

Bill is very clearly trying not to smile about that. “You have to admit, it was kind of funny.”

Mike’s face is stern, but his eyes are dancing. “It was not.”

“Who is Richie?” Ben can’t help but ask. They both look at him as if they almost forgot he was there, and then exchange a glance that implies neither of them know where to start.

“The last human Mike rescued from the woods,” Bill finally settles on.

Ben sits up straighter, suddenly interested. “There are other humans here?”

“Richie was the only one,” Mike says.

Ben considers this. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you guys keep saying _was_.” He stares at them, half-afraid to ask. “He’s still… alive, right?”

“Of course!” Mike looks shocked.

“He lives in the castle,” Bill adds. Then he slides his eyes back to Mike. “Which is where we should be going.”

Mike levels him with an unimpressed look. “I thought you wanted to take him to Stan.”

“Stan will want to take him to the palace,” Bill replies easily, sounding absolutely sure of himself.

“Who is Stan?” Ben asks, feeling a thousand steps behind.

“Stan’s an oracle,” Bill explains.

Mike snorts. “Stan is a good guesser.”

Bill’s eyes narrow. “You’re just upset that he was wrong about Richie.”

“I’m upset that he thought Richie was the King in the first place!” Mike argues, throwing up his hands. “Who would look at that man and think he was the King?”

Bill shrugs. “I thought he was the King.”

Mike stares at him. “Is that why you want to take Ben to Stan? You think he’s the King now?”

“Excuse me,” Ben says again. “Who is the King?”

“We don’t have one,” Bill says. “Yet.”

“It’s a prophecy,” Mike tells him, managing to sound disdainful and yet still somehow kind. “Stan and his kin claim that our King is coming. He’s supposed to be a human, so every time one of you stumbles into our forest, Bill loses his fool mind.”

Bill makes an affronted noise. “It’s only happened once!”

“And now twice,” Mike says, in the same tone someone might use to say _checkmate_.

“Wait,” Ben interjects, catching up. “You think I’m a king?”

“Not _a_ king,” Bill corrects. “ _The_ King.”

Ben stares at him. “But I’m not,” he says slowly. “I’m an architect.”

Mike looks much more interested by that. “What’s an architect?”

“I build things for a living,” he explains. Mike seems delighted, but before he can ask Ben anything further, Bill puts his hands out.

“Anyone can be the King,” he says, looking very much like he’s trying to convince Ben of something. “You just have to marry the Queen.”

“That easy, huh?” Ben says, sounding faint. This is a lot to process. Just last night, he climbed under a fallen log and discovered a secret fairytale universe, and now he’s apparently meant to marry their queen. He subtly pinches himself under the table. It still hurts.

Mike reaches out and puts a hand on Bill’s wrist. “You’re scaring him,” he says gently.

Bill starts to argue, but then he looks at Ben’s expression and all the fight seems to drain out of him. He blows out a breath and sits back in his chair. “I’m not saying you have to storm the castle and make a grand proposal to a total stranger,” he says, sounding sort of dejected. “I just think it can’t hurt to bring him to Stan. That’s all."

Mike pats Bill’s hand. “Maybe we should let Ben decide,” he says. His dark, kind eyes find Ben’s. “Would you like to meet Stan?”

On one hand, Ben doesn’t know if he can take much more excitement. He kind of wants to stay in this quiet, calm place. Maybe he could help with the sheep. Maybe he could explore the woods again. Maybe he could eventually find his way home.

But Bill looks rather put-out. And Ben has never met an oracle before.

“I think…” He pauses, shakes his head, and starts over, more confidently. “I’d like to meet Stan.”

It might be a mistake, but Bill lets out such an enthusiastic victory screech that both Mike and Ben have no choice but to laugh about it.

“Finish your food,” Mike tells him, his eyes dancing. “We’ll leave after breakfast.”

* * *

Ben thinks time must pass differently here, because the field surrounding the house stretches as far as the eye can see and there is no indication of a nearby town, much less an entire city, but it only takes them perhaps thirty minutes to find a wide carved path, and another twenty to approach the high stone city walls.

They’re alone at first, even on the main path, but as soon as they near the gates, they’re surrounded on all sides by a number of people, women and men and children of all different colors and sizes. None of them look twice at Ben, but Ben finds himself staring without meaning to. There’s a blonde woman with a nose so sharp it looks like a weapon, and a black-haired child who almost runs into his legs and apologizes with a grin full of pointed teeth. There’s a man with midnight skin, so tall and dark he could be a tree’s shadow. He greets Mike with the enthusiasm of an old friend. “One of my kin,” Mike explains, though Ben didn’t ask. He wonders how many kinds of people there are here. Looking around the crowded streets, the possibilities seem endless.

Bill leads their trio through the city, down several winding paths that seem endless to Ben. The crowds thin the farther they go. By the time they reach a small single-story gray brick building, they’re alone again. Ben stares up at the house, surprised. He doesn’t know where he expected an oracle to live, but it certainly wasn’t here.

Inside, it’s warm and smells like fresh flowers. Ben half-expects fog machines and mystically dim lights, but instead there are several wide windows that illuminate the whole room with bright sunshine. The place is spotless. Ben isn’t actually sure if there is dust in whatever world he has stumbled into, but if there is, there’s not a speck of it here.

“Stan?” Bill calls. His voice shakes, like maybe he’s excited. Like maybe he’s nervous.

“Come in,” a voice calls back. This seems nonsensical, considering they are already inside the house, but then Ben notices a small door, the same color as the back wall it is set into, only visible because it’s hanging open a crack. Ben can’t see anything beyond it, and something about it makes his pulse pick up. Bill gives him an encouraging smile and then goes to the door, pulls it all the way open, and disappears inside. Mike follows him. He has to duck into a deep bow to fit. Ben hesitates, his heart in his throat, but it’s not much different than crawling underneath a fallen log when he thinks about it. He goes through.

This room is much darker, but not in a way that strikes Ben as part of an act. There are strings of lights hanging from the ceiling, just bright enough to illuminate their faces. Mike looks strong and impassive in the dim light. Bill just looks thrilled. His pointed ears throw interesting shadows against the far wall.

There is a small table in the center of the room, lined with several bottles and another string of lights. Three chairs sit in front of it, and another sits behind. This chair is occupied.

Stan, as it turns out, looks much less like a fortune-teller than Ben expects. There is no crystal ball on the table before him, and he’s not wearing a plethora of silk scarves or big hoop earrings. In fact, he looks mostly normal. He’s not tall, like Mike, and his ears are perfectly rounded, unlike Bill.

But his eyes are white.

Ben assumes this means he cannot see, but somehow, when the three of them file into the chairs, Stan’s milky eyes find Ben’s.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. His voice is soft, but threaded with steel. It makes the hair on the back of Ben’s neck stand up, but not in a particularly bad way.

Bill elbows him. “I told you,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth. Mike shushes him. Stan does not seem to hear them, fully intent on Ben.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Ben tries to answer, but his voice catches. “Ben,” he manages, sounding small.

“Ben,” Stan repeats, a sigh of sound. He nods, as if agreeing. “That sounds right.”

“You said the same thing about Richie,” Mike points out. It would probably sound like an insult to Stan’s skill coming from anyone else, but Mike is such a gentle giant that it comes across as more of a fact than anything.

Stan shrugs. “I was wrong about Richie,” he admits. “But I was also right.”

“Everyone is always wrong and right,” Mike mutters, just loud enough for Ben to hear.

“Are you right this time?” Bill asks, his voice shaking with excitement. “About Ben?”

Stan says nothing. He puts a hand out on the table, palm up, and stares at Ben with such unwavering attention than Ben just knows what he’s supposed to do. He puts his hand over Stan’s, allowing their palms to touch.

Stan goes as still as a statue. His eyes are positively luminous, brighter than the strings of lights surrounding them.

“We have to take him to the castle,” he says after a long time.

Bill, as if anticipating this, jumps to his feet. “Good enough for me! Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Stan’s hand twitches under Ben’s. “I want to come with you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben sees Mike and Ben share an uneasy glance.

“Why?” Mike asks.

“I thought you couldn’t leave,” Bill adds.

Very slowly, Stan begins to smile. “I stayed because there was something to wait for.” His glowing eyes bore into Ben. “But now it is here.”

This must seem very profound to Bill and Mike, who both fall completely silent.

Ben, however, can’t help but pipe up. “Excuse me,” he says, trying to sound both polite and brave and probably missing the mark on both. “But can someone explain to me what is going on?”

“You’re the King,” Bill tells him, breathless.

“Stan believes you’re the King,” Mike corrects, which sounds like an important distinction.

“I don’t claim to know everything,” Stan says magnanimously. “I’ve been wrong before. But I am willing to find out if I’m wrong about this.” Stan blinks at Ben. “Are you?”

Is he? How is he supposed to know how to answer that? He doesn’t even know what’s going on.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

Stan’s lips twitch into a smile. “I would never presume to tell you what to do,” he says. “That is not my place.”

Ben doesn’t know what to make of that. “What is your place?”

“My place is right here,” he says, exuding exactly the kind of calm confidence an oracle should. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. As are you.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Ben says, for what feels like the hundredth time, “but has anyone ever told you it’s exhausting to talk to you?”

Stan’s small smile finally widens. “Richie said the same thing.”

“Maybe that’s why you got them confused,” Bill breathes, wide-eyed.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Mike grumbles.

“Perhaps it is,” Stan agrees.

“I think I’d like to meet this Richie guy,” Ben says, mostly because Richie is perhaps the only other human in this world and Ben has about a million questions for him.

Stan’s smile turns satisfied. “I thought you might say that.” He rises from his seat, gesturing for them to do the same. “We will take you to the castle.”

Ben had fully forgotten that Richie lives in the castle — which is, of course, exactly where Stan wants him to go anyway, all because of some prophecy.He wonders if this is what he’s meant to be doing. He wonders if destiny is supposed to be so confusing.

He wonders what the queen looks like.

* * *

Bill, Mike and Ben had been essentially ignored when they entered the city. Now that Stan has joined them, this is no longer the case.

People have been staring since they left Stan’s home — which, as Ben comes to find out, is not his home at all, but actually more of an office. Where he lives is one secret he is not willing to share. “Knowing the future is a dangerous business,” he tells them, and that’s as much of an explanation as he’s apparently willing to give.

He walks a little ahead of them and the crowds melt around him, as if swept aside by some invisible force. People gasp and point and whisper from all sides. Ben would be mortified by this kind of attention, but Stan doesn’t seem bothered. He walks with easy, casual confidence and smiles at anyone who meets his eyes. Most don’t.

And then, a few yards inside the gates, a small girl breaks away from the crowd and ignores her mother’s sharp reprimand. She’s barefoot, kicking up small clouds of dirt when she runs, and she skids to a stop directly in front of Stan, staring up at him without fear. Her front teeth have a gap between them. Her shirt is slit open in the back so two tiny blue wings have room to unfurl. They half-open and close gently, in time with her breathing.

“Oracle,” she says. Her tiny hand digs into the small pouch tied around her waist. She produces a small, silver coin and presents it hopefully to Stan. “May I ask a question?”

Stan stares at her. Then, slowly, he crouches down to her level. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Avery,” she tells him. Now that he has given her his attention, she seems shy. She pushes her foot through the dirt and ducks her head, but continues to meet his eye.

“Avery,” he repeats, nodding. “You may ask your question.”

This emboldens her. She lifts her chin again. “Do you know where my doll is? She’s been missing since the Festival. I dropped her in the street, and no one can find her.” Her lower lip begins to tremble. Ben hopes she doesn’t cry. He’ll probably start crying, too. He doesn’t actually believe he’s the King, but Stan and Bill do, and that just doesn’t seem like very royal behavior.

Stan reaches into his pocket and takes out a coin, identical to the one the girl is already holding. He places the coin in her palm, on top of the one she’s already holding, and then takes her hand, holding her fingers closed over them both. His eyes glow white when he touches her, brighter than the afternoon sun, just like when he had touched Ben. “Your doll is safe,” he assures her. “She was injured by the crowds, but someone found her and brought her to the doll-maker. He’s keeping her safe for you.” He gives her small hand a gentle shake. “Keep this coin. Give it to the doll-maker to thank him. He’ll give you your doll.”

The girl’s tearful expression clears at once and she pulls her hand free from Stan’s so she can throw both arms around his neck. “Thank you, Oracle!” she cries. He pats her on the back and then releases her, and she darts back to her mother, chattering wildly about the doll-maker. The girl’s mother offers Stan a grateful smile. He winks at her, and then walks through the city gates like nothing happened at all.

Bill, Mike and Ben all follow him. None of them say anything for awhile. And then, when they’re far enough from the gates that Ben can barely see them when he looks back, Mike’s soft voice says, “Did you really know what happened to her doll?”

Stan doesn’t seem surprised by the question. “Of course not. If I had to keep up with the fates of everything, including inanimate objects, I’d go insane.”

Mike seems to consider this. “So why did you tell her the doll was safe? Won’t she be disappointed when you’re wrong?”

“Just because I don’t know what happened to her doll doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Stan explains patiently. “She’ll give the coin to the doll-maker, and he’ll make her a new doll. When she asks why the doll looks different, he’ll explain it’s part of the healing process.” He smiles. “It’s a system we’ve worked out.”

“Oh.” Something seems to relax in Mike, all at once. His shoulders level off. His expression turns sheepish. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I doubted you, before.”

“That’s okay,” Stan says. “I knew you would.” He nudges Mike gently with an elbow, and it almost sounds like a joke.

“Does this mean you think Ben is the King now?” Bill asks brightly.

Mike looks torn. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m willing to find out.”

Stan and Bill seem satisfied by this. They walk with renewed vigor, pulling ahead. Ben lingers behind, and Mike slows his long steps to match his pace.

“I thought you were on my side,” Ben mutters, only half-joking. “Now I’m the only skeptic.”

Mike grins. “If you turn out to be the King, I’ll think you’ll find a lot of people are on your side.”

Ben looks up at him. “But what if I’m not the King?”

“Then your doubt will be justified,” Mike says, easy as anything. “And Stan will be wrong again.”

Stan’s voice chimes in from ahead of them. “I’m not wrong!”

“Did you know I was going to say that?” Mike asks, surprised.

“No,” Stan admits. “But just because I’ve got Sight doesn’t mean I’m deaf.”

Mike looks chastened. Bill starts to laugh, and Ben can’t help but join in. Something about watching this giant of a man be chastised by small, plain-looking Stan is ridiculous. It’s surreal. Everything about Ben’s life is, suddenly, and maybe that’s why it’s so easy to just give in and laugh.

* * *

The castle is smaller than Ben expects. It’s more like a small mansion. The walls are tall and guarded, and the greenery is thriving, as floral and fragrant as the woods Mike found him in. People filter in and out of the gates, and they’re just as diverse here as they were in the city. Ben sees a woman with slick-looking purple skin, and a short man with soft feathers sprouting from his shoulders and down his arms. Ben is much better about not staring this time, mostly because he can’t take his eyes off the castle. Something about it makes his heart pound heavily in his chest. He wonders if that’s part of the prophecy, and then promptly feels foolish. It’s a perfectly normal, perfectly human reaction. It has nothing to do with destiny.

He’s surprised that they’re allowed to walk through the courtyard without interference, but then he realizes that Mike and Bill have been here before. They brought Richie here, just like this. Stan wasn’t with them then, but it doesn’t seem to matter. No one looks keen on denying a man with oracle eyes. Even the guards posted every few yards don’t interfere with them. Ben looks at them, wondering what they must be thinking. More than once, he finds them already looking back.

The castle is made of a reddish material, like brick but not as rough. Ben trails his fingers along the wall and it’s soft, warmed by sunlight. Even inside, in the dim quiet hallways, the walls feel open and welcoming. _Welcome home_ , Ben thinks, and then rolls his eyes at himself.

They climb a set of seemingly endless stairs and then, at the top, they’re finally stopped by two tall guards standing in front of a giant ornate door. The guards don’t speak, but their armor and posture makes it clear they will not be letting anyone through without permission.

Stan steps forward. “We are here to see the Queen,” he says, calmly, with an air of importance.

The guards say nothing.

Bill moves to stand by Bill’s side. “We’d actually like to see Richie,” he says, with just as much casual confidence, like their entire mission isn’t on the brink of being thwarted.

The guards don’t move a single muscle.

“Oh, for the love of —” Mike cups his hands around his mouth and, with all the strength of a man used to shepherding sheep across acres of land, bellows, “ _Eddie_!”

For a moment, there’s only the lingering echo of Mike’s voice and the subtle clink of the guards’ armor as they brace themselves, perhaps preparing to escort them all from the castle. But then, with a clatter and a groan, the huge wooden door slowly opens. In the doorway stands a small man with dark hair and pixie-like features. His expression is one of supreme annoyance.

“There are procedures, you know,” the man says. “You can’t just drop by whenever you want.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Bill says, grinning.

Eddie looks at him and then, just when Ben is sure they’re all going to be thrown out, he sighs and steps back. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in.” There’s the tiniest of smiles playing around his mouth.

They file into the large room. It’s something of an office, Ben realizes. There’s a large desk and a couple chairs, and an entire library’s worth of paper piled in several large stacks. Eddie pushes one of them aside and adjusts another, and then takes his seat behind the desk. Mike and Stan claim the other chairs. Bill leans up against the huge desk, looking entirely at ease. Ben is left standing, shifting from foot to foot, not at all sure about what is happening.

Eddie looks at them all in turn. He nods at Bill, then smiles swiftly at Mike. He seems surprised to see Stan, and then his eyes find Ben’s and the surprise melts into dull acceptance. “So,” he sighs, not looking away from Ben, “you found another human.”

“Well,” Mike says, his voice full of humor, “he found us.”

Eddie tilts his head. “How?”

“There was a log,” Ben explains, painfully aware of how simple and strange it sounds. “I climbed under it.”

“And you found a forest,” Eddie fills in. “Where the trees glowed and the grass was greener than you’d ever seen it. Is that right?”

“Well. There was also a three-eyed sheep,” Ben says, which makes Mike smother a laugh.

Eddie looks at him for a long time. And then he looks at Stan. “Are you sure about this one?” he asks.

“I’m as sure as I can be,” Stan says, which is both a perfectly decent answer and not an answer at all.

Eddie considers this. “You were wrong, the last time you brought a human here.”

Stan’s mouth twitches as if he wants to smile. “I sent Richie here because this is where he belongs. I might have mistaken the details, but the outcome was the same.” His voice is placid, and his white eyes are intent on Eddie’s face. “He might not have been meant for our Queen, but he was meant for someone.”

For some reason, this makes Eddie blush. He clears his throat, looking away. His gaze finds Ben again. “So you’re the King.” He doesn’t sound much like he believes it.

“Yup,” Ben says, trying to sound confident. “That’s me.”

Eddie almost looks like he wants to smile. “You seem very convinced,” he says drily. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because Stan said so,” Bill says.

“Stan has been wrong before,” Eddie points out.

“Ben’s a good man,” Mike puts in.

“That doesn’t make him a King,” Eddie argues.

“The prophecy says we are waiting for a human,” Stan says, starting to sound impatient. “If you turn away every human we bring you, we’ll never have a King.”

“And if him being a human is the only reason you have, he’s already not a King,” Eddie says with finality. He looks at Ben again and his expression softens the slightest bit. “I’m sorry.”

He stands, looking ready to dismiss them. Ben, who feels like his heart is stuck to his throat, finds his voice.

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he says, “but shouldn’t this be the Queen’s decision?”

Eddie stops. His eyes are piercing and very dark, and the temperature in the room seems to drop by several degrees when a deadly calm expression crosses his sharply-angled face. “I am the Queen’s advisor. I always have the Queen’s best interest in mind.”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Ben says hurriedly. “I’m sure you’re very good at your job. And to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t believe in any of this. I don’t think I’m the King. But you obviously value the Queen’s opinion. Should you let her give it?”

There’s a long, tense moment of silence. Ben is so very sure he’s about to be booted from the castle. Maybe from this world. Eddie is probably perfectly capable of sending him back to Derry, back to that cold forest, back to Henry Bowers. He wishes he had never opened his stupid mouth.

But then, slowly, Eddie’s expression relaxes. “You care about the Queen’s opinion?”

He does, in the same way that he cares about everyone’s opinion. He’s not sure how to explain that, though.

“I care,” he starts slowly, “about Mike. And Bill, and Stan. I care that they brought me all this way. I care that they have been kind enough to feed me, and clothe me, and have faith in me. I don’t believe in prophecies, but they do. They believe in me.” He looks down, embarrassed by his own speech. “The least I can do to repay them is give destiny a chance.”

There’s a long few moments of silence. And then, quietly, Eddie says, “I’ll see what the Queen wants.”

“That’s all we’re asking for,” Mike says gratefully.

“If she wants to meet you, then you will be brought to her,” Eddie tells them. His tone leaves absolutely no room for argument. “But if she does not, you will leave. Is that clear?"

All four of them nod.

“Good.” Eddie looks at each of them in turn. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” Stan says. He stands, looking dreamy and elegant with his white clothes and white eyes. “There’s someone else Ben would like to meet.”

Eddie frowns. “I’m already giving you the Queen. What more could you ask for?”

Slowly, Stan smiles. “He’d like to meet Richie.”

Several emotions seem to cross Eddie’s face at once. He finally settles on grim amusement. He looks at Ben. “Are you sure?”

Ben nods mutely. He’s sort of scared by the mischievous expression on Eddie’s small, pointed face.

“Alright,” Eddie agrees. “I’ll find him. Stay here.”

He comes around the desk but pauses just as he reaches the door. He looks at Ben one last time.

“Do you startle easily?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Under normal circumstances, Ben might have said yes. But today he has climbed under a fallen log and into a fantasy universe, met a three-eyed sheep, had his fortune told, walked across the world, and might be about to meet a Queen. “No,” he says. He sounds convincing even to his own ears.  
Eddie nods, seemingly pleased by this. “Good,” he says, and then disappears into the hall.

Ben has no idea what that is supposed to mean. He’s not sure he even wants to find out.

But it’s too late now.

* * *

When Ben finally meets Richie, there is a flurry of movement and an explosion of noise — both of which come from Richie.

The door to Eddie’s office swings open with a bang, and in the doorway stands a tall man with shaggy hair that falls clumsily across his forehead. He’s lean, bordering on lanky, and he’s wearing the thickest pair of glasses Ben has ever seen. His eyes look enormous when he casts them around the room.

“What’s up, sluts!” he cries. Ben wonders if he should be offended by this on behalf of his new friends, considering there’s no way they know what it means, but before he can work up any indignation, Bill jolts up and tackles Richie into a hug. Richie returns the embrace with an amount of enthusiasm Ben isn’t sure a human should be capable of possessing. “Bill!” he says, loudly, even though his mouth is very close to Bill’s pointed ear. “I missed you, my man!”

Mike is not as quick to rise, but he embraces Richie with just as much vigor, and then holds Richie back by the shoulders to examine him. “You’ve shrunk,” Mike announces finally. Richie pretends to sock him in the stomach. They both laugh.

Stan does not stand and Richie makes no attempt to touch him, but they smile at each other with the fondness of old friends. “Nice to see you outside of that dungeon,” Richie tells him cheerfully.

“I would say the same,” Stan offers, “but it’s never nice to see you.”

Richie seems to think this is singularly hilarious. He’s still laughing when his eyes finally settle on Ben.

“Ah, there he is,” Richie says brightly. He takes two long steps and ends up in front of Ben, taller than him by a few good inches. “My replacement.”

Ben stares at him. “I’m not —”

“Don’t listen to anything Richie says,” Bill tells him, grinning like mad. “He’s never serious.”

“I’m serious about you, Billy boy!” Richie says, blowing Bill a kiss. Bill tries to look disgusted, but he doesn’t do a very good job.

“Careful, Rich.” For someone who had expressed abject disinterest in having Richie on his farm ever again, Mike’s voice is warm and very fond now. “Wouldn’t want to make Eddie jealous.”

Eddie appears suddenly in the room, as if he was waiting to be addressed. “Let Bill have him,” he says flatly. “Please take him back with you.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Richie says. “You’d miss me too much.”

To Ben’s surprise, Eddie doesn’t argue. He makes a weird, dismissive gesture, but the way he looks at Richie is so open and warm that Ben thinks _oh_. He suddenly understands what Stan had been talking about when he said Richie was meant for someone.

And then, finally, Richie’s erratic attention settles back onto Ben. “Gotta tell you, my man,” he says, offering his hand, “it’s kind of nice to see another human.”

Ben manages a smile, shaking Richie’s hand firmly. “Truer words have never been spoken,” he agrees.

Richie, with all the enthusiasm of a man with a thousand stories, launches into a meandering tale about how he found this place. Ben is listening, honest, except that… Well, he can’t focus. Something about Richie is bugging him. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the wild hair, sticking up in all directions like Richie is full of lightening. Or maybe it’s the twisted teeth, or the disarming way Richie’s enormous eyes have a habit of never looking at the same place for more than a handful of seconds. Or maybe…

“Wait,” Ben says, interrupting Richie without meaning to. Richie looks at him like he’s a complete jerk, but miracle of all miracles, he stops talking. “Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t get to that part of the story,” Richie replies haughtily. He seems rather upset that Ben wasn’t listening.

Ben feels bad, except… “This might sound weird,” he says, slowly, “but are you, by chance, from Derry?"

Richie’s annoyed expression melts into surprise, and then into suspicion. He squints at Ben. “How did you know that?”

“I recognized you,” Ben tells him. “You were on the missing posters.”

Richie looks floored by this. “There were missing posters? Of _me_?”

Ben nods. “All over town. I think you had just gone missing when I moved to town a few years ago.”

“Wow.” Richie seems to absorb this for a long moment. “I didn’t think anyone would miss me,” he admits finally. There’s a note of sadness in his voice. It doesn’t suit him at all.

Ben doesn’t know what to say. He probably shouldn’t have brought it up. He shifts his weight awkwardly, giving a helpless little shrug.

And then, all at once, Richie’s expression clears. “I can’t believe you moved to _Derry_ ,” he exclaims. “No one ever moves to Derry.”

“That’s me,” Ben agrees. “The exception.”

“Big Ben the Exception,” Richie intones, sounding like an announcer. “That’s one for the history books.”

“ _King_ Ben the Exception,” Bill corrects.

“Hear, hear!” Mike says, holding up his fist in a makeshift toast, which makes everyone laugh. Except for Eddie, who is busy raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“He’s not King yet,” Eddie reminds them. “He still has to meet the Queen.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Are you really still trying to prolong the mystery?” he gripes. “You and I both know she wants to meet him.”

Something sharp and shocking jolts through Ben’s stomach. The Queen wants to meet him. _Him_.

He’s suddenly not so sure this is a good idea.

But it’s too late. Eddie is already giving in to a smile, like maybe he’s not very good at telling Richie no. “She has agreed to a meeting,” he says. A thrill goes through the room, and everyone starts to stand, clamoring to speak. Eddie raises a hand. They fall silent. “She has requested a _private_ meeting.”

Bill and Mike look spectacularly disappointed by this. Stan looks like he expected as much, but Stan always looks like that. Richie looks thrilled. His smile is huge. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he says, and punches Ben gently on the shoulder. Ben tries to return his smile, but it feels shaky and unconvincing. He’s so nervous. Why is he so nervous? Twenty minutes ago, he hadn’t given the Queen more than a few passing thoughts. Now, though, it feels like his entire existence depends on her.

Maybe that was dramatic. Ben shakes his head at himself. He’s being foolish.

“When?” he asks. “When does she want to meet me?”

Eddie stares at him. His small face is awash with amusement. “Now,” he says.

“Oh,” Ben says, faintly. “No time like the present, huh?”

Richie is watching him. “Dude, are you okay? You’re not going to pass out, right? That probably wouldn’t be a great first impression.”

“He’s not going to pass out,” Stan says. “He’s going to be just fine.”

Ben doesn’t know if Stan knows this because of a vision or because he has faith in Ben, but it makes him feel better either way. He steels himself. “I’m going to be fine,” he agrees, sounding mostly sure.

“You’re going to be better than fine,” Bill assures him. “You’re going to be King.”

Eddie gives an impartial shrug. “We’ll see,” he says, and then motions to Ben. “Come with me.”

Ben has no choice but to listen. His heart in his throat, his hands sweating at his sides, he lets Eddie lead him out of the office and into the long, dimly lit corridor.

* * *

The first thing Ben thinks about the Queen is _she looks so much younger than I was expecting._

And then, immediately after, _wow she’s beautiful._

The Queen is waiting for him in the castle’s private gardens. There are several people fluttering around her, eager to do her bidding, but she waves them all away. The only people who are allowed to remain are the Queen, Eddie, Ben, and a series of guards stationed every few feet. Ben feels so very exposed. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t think the Queen wants to shake his hand, but it’s too late for him to bow. So he ends up standing awkwardly to the side, waiting for someone to say something.

Eddie breaks first. “This is him.”

“I assumed that,” the Queen says. Her voice is soft and sweet and saturated with amusement. “But thank you for clarifying.”

Eddie makes a face. “Next time, I’ll make Richie be the escort,” he says. It sounds like a threat. “Then you’ll see how blessed you truly are to have me.”

“Next time?” the Queen asks. “You believe there will be a next time?”

Ben doesn’t look, but he can feel the way Eddie peers at him.

“I think,” Eddie says, very slowly, “that it’s too early to tell.”

“Spoken like a true diplomat,” the Queen laughs. Eddie preens like this is a compliment. And then, all at once, the Queen’s icy blue eyes turn to Ben. “And what about you?” Her voice is still sweet, but it is laced with an undercurrent of steel. “Do you believe there will be a next time?”

Ben opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he shrugs and says, “I think that’s your decision.”

The Queen seems pleased by this answer. She inclines her head. Her long red braid tips to the side, swaying gently. “Come with me,” she says to Ben. It doesn’t sound like a request.

“Uh.” He looks at Eddie, then at her, then at all the guards. It’s probably not a good idea to deny her. “Sure.”

Eddie doesn’t follow them. Ben didn’t expect him to, but being alone with the Queen makes his pulse ratchet up. He hopes she can’t tell how much he’s sweating.

They walk in silence for awhile. Ben wishes she would say something, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she’s looking at the flowers. She has wings. They’re impossible not to notice, golden and massive-looking, folded up against her back, only just peeking out from under her dress. Ben wonders what they would feel like.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted your day,” he offers after awhile. It feels like the polite thing to say.

The Queen looks at him. Her gaze is somehow both sharp and soft. “You’re not interrupting anything,” she says. “I like to walk through the gardens.”

Ben can see why. “They’re beautiful,” he offers. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The Queen’s face lights up. “You like them?” She sounds pleased. “I’ve spent a lot of time here.”

“I can tell.” He looks down at their feet. The wildflowers line the path on either side in careful, calculated rows. There isn’t much of a breeze, but they’re still swaying, leaning in like they’re trying to get closer to their Queen. Ben remembers watching the flowers in the forest move out of his way. It’s still surreal, but it doesn’t make him feel nearly as disoriented now. “Where do you find them?”

“All over,” the Queen tells him. “Sometimes people bring them to me as gifts. Sometimes I go searching for them. And sometimes they just appear.” She eyes him. “Things have a habit of doing that around here.”

Ben ducks his head, embarrassed. “In my defense,” he says, “I really didn’t climb under that fallen log with the intention of finding another world.”

The Queen laughs. It’s low and melodic and possibly the most beautiful noise Ben has ever heard. “I believe you,” she assures him. “Mike and Bill have a bad habit of bringing me stray humans. It’s not your fault.”

“They’re doing it for you,” he says, because it feels important that she knows Mike and Bill have nothing but her best interest in mind. “They’re trying to make you happy.”

The Queen looks at him, side-long. “They think having a King will make me happy?”

Ben doesn’t know quite how to answer that. “Maybe,” he says slowly. “But they have good intentions. They want you to be happy, whatever that takes. I’m pretty sure if you asked them to, they’d send me right back where I came from.”

“I don’t know about that,” the Queen says. “Eddie tells me they’re very fond of you.”

Ben can’t help but smile. He’s grown rather fond of them, too. “They’re good friends,” he admits. “I’m going to be sad to lose them.”

“Lose them?” The Queen sounds surprised. “Why would you lose them?”

“When I go home,” Ben explains.

The Queen stares at him. “Are you planning to leave already?”

“Well, no.” He meets her eyes. “Not yet.”

“When?” she demands.

“When you ask me to,” he says, slowly, because surely that’s what has to happen. If he isn’t the King, he has no use here.

The Queen seems to consider this. “And if I don’t ask you to?”

“Then I’ll stay,” he tells her, as if it could possibly be that simple. “For as long as you let me.”

The Queen looks at him for a long, long time. And then, apropos of nothing, she crouches down to touch a single flower. It bends happily into her touch. “Do you know what this is?” she asks him.

“Uh.” Ben doesn’t know much about flowers. “No, your, uh, majesty.”

The Queen’s mouth quirks. “You can call me Bev,” she tells him, and then, before he can fully process this, says, “This is a Columbine. It means forgotten love.”

“Oh.” He crouches down next to her, but doesn’t reach for the flower, unsure if his touch is welcome. Bev and her flowers seem to have some private understanding that he’s not privy to, and the last thing he needs is to upset her or her garden. “They’re beautiful.”

“They are,” she agrees. And then she rises, walking again like she never stopped. She points out another bunch of flowers, farther from the path. They’re small and purple and clustered happily together. “Forget-me-nots,” she explains. “They stand for faithful love.”

Ben nods, absorbing this. “What about those?” he asks, pointing out a few bell-shaped purple blooms.

Bev smiles at the flowers, and then at him. “Foxgloves,” she says.

“And those?”

“Lady Slippers.”

This goes on for awhile. Ben points out a flower, and Bev explains what it is. They walk together through the gardens, slowly, leisurely, and for awhile, all Ben thinks about is the sweet floral smell and the rainbow of colors and the way Bev’s hair shines copper under the sun.

And then, finally, they reach the end. There are no more flowers left to identify. Ben already recognizes the last cluster.

“Those are roses,” he tells her.

She smiles. “They are,” she agrees. “Do you know what they stand for?”

“Romance,” Ben says. “You give someone a rose when you want them to know how you feel about them.”

Bev considers this. And then, swift as ever, she reaches out and plucks a single rose, somehow managing to avoid all the thorns.

“That’s exactly what they mean,” she says, her voice impossibly soft. There’s a handful of seconds where all Ben can do is stare into her endless summer eyes, but then something velvet-soft is brushing his hand and he has to look down.

Bev is pressing the rose into his hand. He takes it, careful not to prick himself, and looks at her again. He has a million questions, but they all stick to his tongue. Bev smiles, like maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, and then, without a word, she turns away. Several guards follow her. They would probably stop him if he tried to follow, but that doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t try. He can’t. He feels frozen, stuck to the spot, pinned down by the weight of the velvet rose in his hand and the sweet, soft way Bev had looked at him.

* * *

When he returns to his friends, everyone is dying to know how the meeting went. Even Eddie, who has so far been cool and collected about the whole thing. Even _Stan_ , who Ben had assumed would already know the outcome. Bill and Mike are beside themselves. And Richie is his usual mess of energy and enthusiasm, asking rapid-fire questions that Ben is too numb to answer.

He doesn’t know what to tell them. In truth, nothing happened. Not really. He liked Bev, and he thinks she liked him. But it’s not like he proposed. He’s not the King. He’s still just Ben Hanscom, displaced human refugee.

But he’s still holding the rose. He remembers the way Bev had looked at him, the light in her ice-glass eyes, the halo of red hair framing her face, the golden shadow of her folded wings. His heart is still hammering in his chest. He wonders, maybe, if she’s thinking of him just as fervently as he’s thinking of her.

It doesn’t feel like destiny, but it certainly feels like something.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://hanscom.tumblr.com). Let's be friends.
> 
> Bo, I hope you enjoyed. Thank you times a thousand for your patience.


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